So, the Gothenburgian weekend is still surprising in between times, all though the surprises are uncomfortably familiar and really not what you might hope for. If you’re travelling through Gothenburg as a foreigner most people will probably recommend the Second Long Street for your pub hopping experience, and I guess they’re right. Thought it’s just one street, it’s usually where everyone out side of the Swedish House Mafia culture goes to, meaning you will hear and see the typical left wing, hipster, tattooed, ipa-drinking, second hand shopping, self renowned aspiring creative geniuses en masse. Beautiful people on the outside, rarely as interesting on the inside. Again, it’s style, not content. A few of these pubs are as familiar to me as my own home, and most of them didn’t even exist ten years ago, when I first took my steps down that lane. Ten years of different companies, with different intents. Looking different on the outside, being different on the inside. Different drinks and different drunks. Looking through all these windows as I’m strolling down the street, remembering different eras in my life when one or another of them was the standard choice. I can’t decide whether this feeling is a good one, of belonging, of a safe context, or if it’s choking me that I’m still here. I’m still here. I have been out but I keep coming back.
The other day a friend of mine implied that I’m over analysing life in general and think too much. “Before you know it you’re dead”. Exactly. That’s why I think about my everyday life, that’s why I choose to think about what I really want, everyday, and not just walk about on routine, without questioning life. I need to keep questioning and challenging my day-to-day life. Maybe I’m not supposed to do what I always thought I was supposed to. Looking at options, at how other people live their lives, endless possibilities and endless limitations. The only thought striking me over and over again this weekend was that of change, of moving on, not just emotionally or psychologically this time. I need to move on physically, if only for a year or two. This city is driving me mad, breathing me in and smoking me out.
Lately it has struck me how people automatically defines themselves and others according to their jobs. That’s one of the few things we strive so hard to find and keep, cause it’s concrete. What do you do? What are you gonna do? As if, having an education, you’re automatically supposed to develop this skill, dedicate your life to that single purpose. Earning money. Selling work force. “Well, I work as a waitress but I’ve a master in History”. “So, what jobs are you dreaming of?”. I’m not dreaming of working, I’m dreaming on learning to survive outside 9-5 borders. Even when you try to alter both the answers and the questions posed, the reaction is usually a leaning head and a look of pity. As if I haven’t understood the possibilities of having a good job. “You can get a little something for yourself” -”Well, the thing they never understood was that I wanted everything”.
So after this weekend, I’ve got the blues. Even a cowgirl can end up having the blues, as proven by Mr Robbins. Maybe I’ll get my dream job and end up happy with that. My PhD application is actually really interesting and I’m enjoying doing the research. But there’s a stale air within these four walls. I can smell there’s something out there worth finding first. Come January!